Blog Archives

Ain’t It Lovely to Receive An Award!?

Hey guys!

It has been a while since I was blessed with an award, but this dry spell has officially ended. Recently, the quirkiest quirky girl ever (whose blog can be found at the following link: http://diaryofaquirkygirl.wordpress.com/) nominated me for the One Lovely Blog Award! Thank you Ma’am!

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Now, apparently I am supposed to link to my nominator’s blog (check), show the award on my blog (check), nominate fifteen other bloggers (on my to do list), and additionally,  I am meant to share seven riveting facts about myself…Well, in that case, sit back, and prepare to have your minds blown (not really).

Super Amazing Fact 1: I am quite the Anime fan, my favorites been Ghost in the Shell (I have a massive crush on the Major) (also, I recently pre-ordered Arise) and Appleseed (which I have the entire collection of, including the original 1989 version, the movie adaptions of the TV series, and the recent addition, Alpha). I also quite enjoy Patlabor, the Aquarion series, STR.A.IN, Star Wars Clone Wars, Shangri-La, and the animated adaptions of video games, including Halo Legends, Mass Effect Paragon Lost, Dead Space Downfall and Aftermath, and Dragon Age Dawn of the Seeker. I believe I enjoy animated features and shows because often many of the lead protagonists are comprised of very powerful female characters, who are not only capable of kicking ass, but are realistically portrayed.
On a side note, I also enjoy Red vs. Blue, and have the ten years of Red vs. Blue box set.

Super Amazing Fact 2: Presently, I am in my final semester of my Postgraduate Masters course. Part of me will be glad when this is officially over because the 15,000 word thesis is kicking me in places I don’t like being kicked. What I find most annoying, is that every time I speak with my adviser, there are brand new criticisms he wishes to bring to my attention; criticisms that were non-existent the last time, and so I need to take these into account and make further amendments. For instance, one week he would say how a paragraph is great, and the next time, that same unedited paragraph, is suddenly not worth keeping. I mean, come on Doc! Make up your mind already!
However, I am unsure where I wish to go from here; should I (if I have the required grades) go on to do my doctorate (which would assist me in becoming a tutor at university), or should I do a Master of Teaching (which would grant me the ability to teach at secondary schools)?

Super Amazing Fact 3: I recently changed internet providers. I have been using Optus for, well, years actually, and I have been impressed with the service thus far (on most occasions), however the 15 gigabyte a month plan I had was beginning to feel restrictive, and now I have access to unlimited internet for a cheaper price. This has especially come in handy with my copy of Destiny on Xbox One (at present I’m a level 24 Blade Dancer) . On that note, are there any bloggers online (who I happen to know) that play Destiny? When it comes to temporarily teaming up with random strangers, it might actually be nice to have some kind of history with the players.

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Furthermore, an alternative subject; does anyone know when Ghost in the Shell Online is coming out? I know the developers said early to mid 2014 back in February, but I’m not seeing it…

Super Amazing Fact 4: When it comes to movies, I don’t have a particular genre preference – I will often try anything if it looks even moderately appealing. When it comes to reading on the other hand, I can very rarely stand contemporary fiction, especially the Australian variety, where often life in the country seems to be a major theme, which does nothing to impress me in the slightest. When writing my own material however, especially prose or novels, I have a tendency to enjoy developing science fiction oriented pieces, which is a problem in Australia when it comes to looking for a publisher. Although magazines like Aurealis accept submissions of speculative fiction, larger publishers rarely do, with many of the literary agents and/or publishers that ever did accept such work either going out of business, or since adjusting their preferences regarding the type of work they choose to endorse/publish.

Super Amazing Fact 5: I have an avid fascination with jewellery. Apart from a watch, I almost always have at least two other wrist bands on (one of which is my medic alert bracelet – wouldn’t want to forget that), and on top of this, I never leave home without a necklace. I have pierced ears, with two rings in my left and one in my right, which I often swap. On occasions when I go out (for instance, next week I’ll be attending a poetry reading in the city), I wear much larger designs, two of which are these massive skulls with bright red eyes.

Super Amazing Fact 6: I don’t have many male friends; most of my friends happen to be gals. Most guys I know outside of the net talk either about cars (the only time I care about cars is when the one I’m in stops working) or AFL (which I used to enjoy, and I even played football on occasion (not professionally of course), but, kicking an oddly shaped red ball from one side of the field to the next just doesn’t really do it for me). The reason I mention this, is because I have in the past become attracted to some of my friends; in fact, my last girlfriend was actually a best friend of mine. Obviously men and women can be friends, this is a proven fact, however for me, sometimes I think that perhaps a man wakes up one day and realizes the young lady he has been searching for has been beside him all along. I guess the point I’m making is that if you’re a young woman who happens to be a friend of mine, one day (unless you’re married), I might just happen to fall in love with you. You have been warned!

Super Amazing Fact 7: None of these super amazing facts have been really super amazing, and even I am thoroughly disappointed by that.

After the reveal of these super amazing facts, my mission goal is to nominate 15 other people. Okay then, without further ado (cliche’ I know), allow me to say – I have no intention of nominating anyone. I literally follow hundreds of people on WordPress! Am I really expected to pick 15 bloggers? What about the other few hundred lovely blogs that I don’t nominate? So, allow me to say, if you have a lovely blog and you happen to read this text, if you want the One Lovely Blog Award, it is yours! I don’t want to miss out on nominating someone who deserved the award, and I am certain if you are reading this, you are as deserving of it as anyone else.

Thank you for stopping by guys! And thank you again to the Quirky Girl for this nomination. Have a great day!

Dear Tony Abbott

This poem contains some profanity and adult themes. Additionally, a video of the poem being read aloud can be found here: http://youtu.be/rbmlxhJHwHQ

You may be the minister of our country,
but I never had you elected, and you are
no leader of mine, and I would have wasted
my time if I thought you would ever listen
to my concerns. Therefore, this is not
addressed to you, but I would not mind
if you spared me a moment, as the Liberal
weed killer withers the fields
of social tulips, tarnished by the hands
of economic persecution.

Rather than wielding your words
of political propaganda like an artist
with a brush, you wield them like a son
who has found his father’s gun,
blowing holes through the hearts
of all Australian citizens. Tell me,
as tax exempt politicians shrink
the pocket money of the people until
it becomes gaunt and feeble,
should you privatise water
to solve the crisis of debt that is almost
non-existent, when in contrast
to countries across the ocean’s divide?

Speaking of, are there 457 reasons
as to why you give jobs away
like leaflets on the street to supposedly
skilled migrants, educated half a world away
with no knowledge on our creed or culture,
yet deny us, Australia’s children,
economical aid when these jobs are unavailable?
In doing everything to hinder families for life,
whilst helping ensure the rich are unimpeded,
you help illustrate that all one needs
to be a minister is the willingness
to tax the poor and deprive them
of government aid; commit cultural
genocide, homophobia and misogyny,
and return us all to the age of the aristocrats,
when only the rich were educated,
and the poor remained forever in their slums.
All this from a man who accused the previous
government of lying, and proceeded
to do away with all of his promises
before the year was over; all this,
from a man who would laugh
in the face of sex workers with seamen stained
lips, and the taste of cheating husbands
dripping upon the every word that falls
from between their teeth; all this
from a man who thinks turning
back boats, and almost starting
an international incident in the process,
makes up for all the families in Australia
that shall go hungry tonight.

Wrapped up in the hangman’s noose,
and meant to march to the music
like a toy soldier, I recall a stranger
having once asked is this your country,
for it is drowning in deficit. Is this your country
probed another, for it is buried
beneath a behemoth of lies. Is this your country
questioned someone else, for it is blind
to the pains of the struggling
and the poor. Is this your country
another citizen asked, for interlopers
and shameful stigmas still exist – when shall
we right the wrongs and cast down
the barricades binding us to poverty? What
answer should I give to those struggling beneath
your reign? Is rape even a crime to a man
who rapes the country blind?

Moreover, did your daughter happen to drop your name
before being granted an education, bought
and paid for, without consent, by the taxpayer?
I am the child of the prime minister perhaps?
A threat, much like a mother telling
her disobedient spawn wait till your father
gets home, and suddenly, those unwilling
to cooperate find themselves flung
out of offices for failing to abide
by the corporate standard; the Abbott’s
get what they want, and all the rest
are fucked over. And so, the tax payer
paid for your daughter’s education,
and now you’ll probably knight her too,
and if my name were Abbott, would I be entitled
to the same? Of course, if she were gay
you would have her disowned, right?
Made an example of; erected a statue
in the middle of the city of you marching
her towards the metaphorical guillotine
in you red budgie smugglers?

On second thoughts, I hardly think I want
an answer when I know it shall
be burdened beneath the arrogance
of pompous, egotistical revolt, from
a man and all his friends who dress
in thousand dollar suits and dresses,
whilst the people strive to buy a loaf
of bread. Here, allow me to give to you
my severed penis, for I want no
children of mine born into your
fucking cut throat regime.

Where in the World is Kevin Brophy?

A reading of this poem can be found at the following link: http://youtu.be/X7LTKTmmRXM

An endless effigy of infinite romanticism
which is promised to endure the constraints of over a thousand years
is encased within poetic stanzas evermore,
for what a poet can teach you in life,
their poetry can teach you in death, the truthful touch
of their agenda holding sway long after their bodies have succumb
to the bludgeoning of a long forgotten millennia.
Even when all who once loved them with a great allotment of endearing passion
have disappeared into the boundaries of death’s universe,
the name of the one who put pen to paper
to express a symphony of regretful love and opinionated torment
continue to be remembered, their voice coming through
from across the divide as though they never really left at all.

But then there are others, I especially,
whose memory shall barely be held onto after the shroud of death
takes my hand in hers. Much unlike the talented poetic legionnaires
of our society, whose professionalism has been passed ever so continuously
from reincarnation time and time again, similarly to the cat
who has crossed the road for the ninth time, the receiving
of another rejection letter sends me into an inescapable delirium
of unwanted anguish. In this hour I am supposed to be victorious
in my pursuit of the perfect poetic piece, the bitter taste of defeat
is all that falls upon my tongue, despite the humbled beginnings
offered at the orchestration of this passage writ.

To ensure the moment after the final stanza falls upon the ears of many
is not one of total embarrassment, treachery and theft
may well become the desperate measures of a man
wanting more than he has been offered by the conveyer of our fates,
and when I do disappear from the realm of the living spirit,
I wish for there to be tears that fall like hail,
rather than the total lack of any actual memory.
To die sad, alone and afraid between the covers of a poetry anthology
50 years out of print is not going to be my end, and with the exception
of becoming a ventriloquist doll in the hopes of having someone
more intelligent than I, commandeer this mouth of mine
to make certain a word of beauty does fall from between my teeth,
I study the works of others to better understand the role I wish to play.

There’s a poet I know in Arizona, who with but one word
can captivate enthrallingly the attention of even the weariest soul.
There’s a poet I know in New York who refuses to use full stops,
and by the time you have finished reading, you are lying on the ground
unconscious. There’s a poet I know in Florida
who refuses to read the work of others,
for she thinks her ears, which are ever so delicate, are a precious commodity
not to be risked on work she considers below par.
There’s a poet I know in Canada who expressly writes about his daughter,
so if tragedy should strike its chord and she be left alone,
never will it cross her mind that she was ever without love.
There’s a poet I know in the Philippines
who only ever writes pieces about heartbreak,
and yet, for a broken heart to happen there must have originally been love,
but never is such an emotion spoken of.
There are poets I know in England who write only about depression,
and who obviously need a recalibration of their repertoire.

But for all I think I know, the knowledge I hold within me
is little more than nothing, for I read once only the old,
renown for serving in poetry wars long forgotten to time,
who are naturally mummified by skin so ancient
it is pulled taught across their defeated frames,
continue to give a little more of themselves
each day to the enduring poetic art,
in the hopes it may outlive the celebrity that is Chappell Corby.
It is then that I hear of a well aged white wine which goes by the name
Kevin Brophy, and if I were to grow on him like a wart
and steal his unfinished masterpiece before it fills a canvas
whole, I could call it my own and receive the love of many.
For this to reach the epicentre of fruition, I shall become
the chalk to his cheese; the Hyde to his Jekyll; the asp to his Cleopatra.

Once this has happened, and I have been brought
the mind of Kevin Brophy, I will come to poetic readings,
not to hear the words that once paraded inside the minds
of those within a community far more intelligent than I,
but to find vixen’s whose beauty is beyond the apex
of my desire, so I may write a poem of their lustrous features
and encapsulate and immortalise this gorgeousness
for the world to still acknowledge a thousand years from now,
and tonight, my poem shall be written about you.

Above all else however, I will write so poem hating zealots,
who dare to criticise what they cannot control;
who are fuelled by the bleeding heart of literature,
as they drown their inebriated ignorant existences
in Molotov cocktails, are forcibly flogged
by a metaphorical chain, comprised from the bones
of unforgotten poets who died to have their words
read by legions in futures that were at the time
yet to be conceived, so they hear the better work of others
like a bout of tinnitus, and if I were a woman,
I would be an Amazon, and I would rip their hearts
out from between their barren bones and show it to their face,
so they might know the words of beauty
which were to be injected into the palpitating muscles
by a poet’s thoughts, which have now been replaced
by the utmost fucking torture of damnation forevermore.

This ability I would always secretly owe to Kevin Brophy,
whose adept creativity I plucked like the virginity
of a fair angel. But when this day arrives, where in the world
would he be; this man who would, and I am certain of this,
be late even for his own obituary, where we would recite how he,
like many a manipulator of the written word,
fell foolishly for poetry, like all who are here now.

To Stand Aghast at Poetry

I awoke to discover a Monday morning
quite unlike no other, and wondered if at first
I had fallen into the abyss of a dream,
that dared to reunite me with the binding tides
of familial foundations. To the left of me
my mother sat, a smile wider than any crevasse,
and more moist than any ocean
written on her face, as she proclaimed
that I wake up to drink the rays
of the rising dawn. To the right,
my father stood, with the physical resemblance
of a toad, after having recently returned
from rehabilitation, where he had spent
his last five years for being beyond inebriated.
A bottle of intoxicating liquid
sat upon the dresser, not far from his reach,
the beverage already having offered enough drops
to fill the glass in hand. ‘I like to look at it’
he answered, whilst masticating away,
after having noticed the doubt
caught between my eyes,
and although there was much I wanted to do
during the hours of this day, I realized,
what kind of man would I be to deny my heritage
the opportunity to discover
what had become of their only son?
These parents of mine, who had consumed
the identities of academic modernists,
were incredibly impressed to learn
about my conquering of university endeavors,
but when they uncovered the roots
of occupational ambition, exhausted after years
of well earned triumph, their expressions
plied me with the knowledge
on how their happiness was halted
by such allegation and slight.
‘I have decided to become a poet’
I produced with a winning smile,
to those who provided me professional morals,
their cheerfulness having capsized
in the uproar of emotional intensity.
My mother stifled a cry; her voice
was now completely gone as my father stood aghast.
‘Oh honey’ my mother managed, her solemn tears
almost seeming inappropriate, ‘you poor thing’,
fearful of how I had been betrayed
by misguided thought. My father on the other hand,
after having bat an eyelid,
drowned his stupendous sorrows
in the emotionally quenching liqueur,
before beginning on the bottle,
and no force in the universe
could stop this occurrence from coming to fruition.

This poem is not entirely truthful, so please dear readers, don’t leave this blog thinking my family is really that deranged. Thanks for reading!  😀

Promoting a Poetry Competition, Volunteer Positions and Career Advice

Often I write only poetry (and occasionally prose) on my blog, but today I am going to be posting something a little different.

First, I will like to announce the Good Morning Bedtime Story (GMBS) international mental health poetry competition is still accepting submissions until April 20th.

Be afraid be beary afraid advert

To submit, send up to three pieces in .doc or .docx format to: gmbscompetition@gmail.com

Each piece needs to have pertinence towards mental health; needs to be 1.5cm spaced and can be up to 100 lines in length.

Prizes for winning entries include the opportunity to be published in a GMBS anthology or on the GMBS website; books of previously published poems; and certificates.

Moreover, GMBS is still looking for people willing to volunteer their time to assist with this online organization. If you are interested, please send an e-mail to: gmbssubmissions@gmail.com, and explain why mental health matters to you and what ideas you have to further promote the organization. On another note, if you are interested in working as a moderator for the GMBS forum, be sure to express your interest in the e-mail. The forum can be found at the following link: http://gmbs.freeforums.net/

Lastly, for university students in Australia (although there are similar opportunities in other countries), Universum, an organization dedicated to helping students find the right career, is still hosting their short Wet Feet Career Test.

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Trying to find the right career is never easy, and yet it is one of the single most important moments of a person’s life. This particular test is designed to make this decision easier by showcasing jobs that share your interests, values and ideas. Participants also have the opportunity to win prizes! So be sure to check it out at the following link:

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If you find any of these opportunities interesting, I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors!

Discussing the Universum Career Test

Hey all!

During this post I intend to quickly discuss the Universum Wet Feet Career Test.

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This is an annually run event for students at university who are uncertain of the future career paths they may wish to undertake. After and during university, a vast number of students may have the misfortune of being unable to acquire a job, and Universum hopes to cut this number in half.

By undertaking the test, students acquire information about the careers that best suit their skills, and companies and employers that share like-minded attributes and ambitions.

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Depending on the country you are located in, there will be different individuals showcasing the test online. As I am located in Australia, the below link will lead to the test for Australian university students to complete if they wish.

Take the survey here: http://unisurv.co/1010auss14

Additionally, by taking the survey you have the chance to win an iPad Air!

I wish you the best of luck.image4

Thank you for reading!

If I dream of thee

Hey guys! This particular poem is one for a university class of mine. Thought I might run it by you guys first before giving it over to my class mates and tutor to look over. I am using a bit of an experiential design here. The piece is meant to be reminiscent of place and space, ‘space’ in this aspect being my opinion of a place, or, in the case of the poem, a person. Please feel free to comment if you believe that there is something wrong with either the consistency or any other aspect!
I appreciate you taking the time to read.
Also, there are a couple of sexual references and some profanity in the piece. Thought I should mention that in case I receive some very young viewers!  😀

Waiting I was for twenty six years to find her,
and wonder I do when I think
together four years was not enough.
Is it greed that floods my sensors,
or is it more of something different
that is yet to be mentioned here?

General Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo
proclaimed that he be worthy
when fell upon his sword he did.
An answer I am yet to find
when question I do my worthiness
to hold onto the memory
of the woman I called my home,
for every day her voice I hear
on moments when soundlessness be not abandoned.

‘When we lay our heads down upon plush pillows,
our hearts begin to beat slower.
We succumb to the tiring sensation
that runs throughout our systems,
and as we close our eyes and let sleep take us,
promise me, my darling,
in the quiet of your fantasies,
you will have hallucinations
of my undying embrace.

This imprisonment is necessary,
for in our dreams we shall meet,
as we sleep under the cover of darkness
that has drowned out the day,
the dead of night rapping at our windows
as we soundlessly dream.
Although we are separated
by the immense oceans of time
that stretch out across the universe,
the nexus between us is most strongest
when our consciousness has been denied.

In this world we are bound not
by the limitations of the living,
who be impaired by lack of vision.
During our dream state we can see ourselves
for who we truly are in the land of the ancient spirits.
Lead you I will, through your sleep
until the two of us are together,
right where we eternally belong.

When around you I’m not,
let love be your guide.
I am in the weather that surrounds you;
my feelings are the winds
drifting across your features;
my thoughts are in the rain that hangs in the air,
and by the end you shall be mine,
as destined you are to be.

Every time you close your eyes it’s me you glimmer
because, in your memories I am alive,
for love like ours lasts more than forever,
it is time itself, and when meet again we do tonight
in your unconscious mind,
you have my permission to run your sweet
fingers through every strand of my hair.

Kiss me with your lips
that be stained with eternal love,
from which I have digested greatly
the affection of my paramour,
and happily drink your love I will,
just as you have drunk mine.

Eat your fill of my feelings
prepared on this platter,
for like numbers, my passion is never ending,
and just when you cannot stomach no more
I will kiss you awake
and tomorrow we can begin anew.’

Spoken are these words few
across the veil of serene passing,
and listen do I to the garrulous tongue
of my beloved as her whisper hangs on the wind,
for love that be true can be halted not
by even the dispersions of sacrilege.
Bound is fidelity’s chalice of mine
that points towards true north,
and when cometh my end does
meet her, my lady, shall I
in the city of angels that floats on the wings
of faith, truth and love.

A time there was once though
when different her emotions were,
and it was I who sacrificed his affection
in order to ensnare the complete attention
of the future residence my heart
longed to live within.

No problem have I ever with saying ‘I love you’
when such words are meant, although I believe
she did once resent such terminology.
Beneath her bench she did keep a voodoo doll
in the shape of any man who charmed her heart,
and stab the thing repeatedly she would
with a needle of solid silver
until a man fell out of fixation with her.

This attitude of hers was an unnecessary one;
a burden upon my soul that seldom feels rejection.
Resent these tactics I did,
knowing how not I would be felled
by such malicious crimes against my romance,
and as I whispered into her ‘all will be alright’,
her bated breath was then released
and she did simply breathe again
in unison with the beating of my palpitating heart.

So if I dream of thee this night,
waketh me not from slumber,
for the elements of but brick and timber
represent not the corporeal visage
of my heart’s desire,
and my one affliction.

My mortal coils bound
by the elixir of her good fortune
offers a defensive reprieve
from the bed of loneliness,
wishing not to sleep beneath the duvet
of such misfortune.

But sometimes this be not enough,
and the phone I ring to have a conversation
with the unforgotten dead.
The ghost of my one true love
is recorded on a loop,
that shall proceed to play for an infinitude,
for the immortal carrier of her voice time is.
I listen with an empowered intent,
to hear my heart’s home say the last goodbye
we were eternally denied.

Shall not shed a tear I will,
but joy instead will be that which erupts
across my features,
for the unwritten tale of our affection
is a story worth consideration
in the halls of unequalled passion.

Not is my permanent place of residence
my home. Protection it does indeed provide,
like a barrier between worlds,
but love and warmth is given not
by the walls of this establishment.
My homesickness felt is not for this construction,
but the home that hath occupy
this residence once with me.

The home that which contains
my palpitating muscle
of passionate throes
alas is a stationary object not,
but a ravishing creature
of independence
who hath captured me
with an unending ease.

Inanimate is not my home,
her roof that which shelters me
being not a mass of tiles
but hair, each strand belonging
in its own place upon
the herbal scented features
of her head, burning
like an out of control grass fire
that rampages across the land.

Cement and brick her flesh is not,
but gentle to the touch
of my fine fingers as I caress
a form of physical magnificence
quite like no other,
my home having taken legitimately
the crown of purest gorgeousness
from the head of Aphrodite,
being bestowed this grateful honour
on the orders of a winged angel,
the Goddess of love and beauty
having for the first time
to stand in the shadows
of my beloved’s figure.

Like a painting hung upon the wall,
her body be the canvas
of such fruitful expenditure.
A rose that be as dark as night
is etched upon her shoulder left,
whilst a sentence strung from words writ
beneath the surface of her flesh
is accumulated on the opposing side;
Je n’ai l’amour de soi et j’adore ca.

A symbol of nefarious intent
in the form of a religious cross
that be hung inappropriately,
drawn in the darkest colour imaginable
that be thick like it is filthy
is painted ever so delicately
across the sumptuous design of her back.

The opposite to this artwork
is, ironically, on the other side,
a slender angel in an ink of blue
hangs like a chandelier
between the ample peaks of her chest,
the wings of this here blessed creature
resting upon thy lady’s bosom’s mantel.

An artist, who must have perspired dangerously
during the birth of the snake
that worms its way around my lady’s lower regions
would have begun the piece of work
where the tail lies beneath the button
in her body’s centre.
Its form slithers towards that which
shall not be mentioned yet,
the tongue of this venomous reptile
resting but an inch above Venus’s mound.

A fire breathing serpent,
quite unlike the creature writ
in the stanza prior,
rests its inflamed features
upon the leg of the woman I call home,
a ring of fire burning
around the body of this wretched beast.

Felt not is pain by a house that is built,
but when born, a different story this is,
however, never ought a tale such as this
be written upon the page again.
A tear, crystalline in appearance
will roll across the flawless features
of the woman I have here regaled,
when consumed with bereavement
her gorgeous soul unfortunately suffers
once the deliverance of offensive villainy
unto her life of beauty is betided.

But she be strong in contrast
with what may be believed,
and if flirt too much did a man
unworthy of her consideration,
apply she would mascara to his angry eyes
and to his chapped lips would be gloss
as she proclaimed with a smile
‘now you be my little bitch!’

If, like a volcano, a commotion did erupt,
and enter did I the room where explode the violence had,
only to find one such person beaten up upon the floor,
‘what the fuck have happen here?’
would be the words bestowed from me,
before being told, simplistically;
‘like this it did happen –
started it he did, and it be I who ended it.’

The lights that illuminate
dark passages on a cold winter’s night
are her cayenne flavoured eyes, shining brighter
than the stars orbiting our atmosphere
that need not switching on,
for always do they exceed
all else that radiates this world
in glowing fixtures.

The chimney is connected not
atop her frame, but to her mouth,
the slender stick of smouldering ash
permeating the world around her
with its obnoxious fumes.
The repugnant flavour of the smoke,
once cycled through her lungs,
has become a scent so sweet,
one could not imagine it was ever so brutal to behold.

Like oxygen is this fragranced cloud
to her, the scented smoke
bringing a smile to those lips that be reminiscent
of the flames she bathes in.
Her cigarette could spontaneously erupt
and paint the effigy of a blazing inferno
that spans her entire body,
and she would shrug and say with bated breath,
‘had to happen sometime.’

Unlike a house belonging
to the land, rooted in place
and grown from the imagination
of workmen’s fingers,
like the seedling of a growing flower,
who speakth only with the
creaking of wood
hanging above me in the ceiling,
its choice in words
reaching my ears on nights
when the wind blows thickest,
different is the speech postulated
from the lips of my humble home.

Opinionated is she,
with an intellect that defies
all known comprehension,
the sounds that roll off her tongue
being not sounds at all,
but words, that need not deciphering
as I listen with an avid ear
to the harmonic gestures
of a musical score
that ought never to be unheard.

The words that fall from thy mouth
match those which be produced
by the lady from my dreams incarnate,
whose words, spoken in an accent untraceable
are concocted by rosy lips of a pink hue
which long, like a flower in the meadow
to be plucked, oh so courteously.

‘You’re the air I breathe,
you’re the sword I seethe,
you’re everything I know.
You’re the destination I will go
to hold onto you my king.’
‘You’re my diamond ring,
you’re my lighthouse in the harbour.
You are the future mother
of my children, my loving queen,
the only one who makes me feel like a human being.’

Although not is meaning lost to thy words spoken,
come a time does on occasion
when what be said fails to clarify
the feelings found within,
and it is on rare occasion such as this
that the touch of flesh against flesh
will say more than what could ever be spoken aloud.

An entryway there be not of conventional design
to touch the soul within her castle’s keep,
for there be no moat to cross
and there be no palace guard.
But permission is ever only granted
to those deserving of her patronage,
the fire that burns within touched only
by the hands of those with just merit
who hath captivated her unruly passion.

Ease not my way through the front door
for there be no knob to turn,
but a buckle that needs undoing
to reveal a pathway to a dungeon
of incomprehensible delights,
the likes of which I cannot help
but lust to plunder.

Upon the first time of this moment transpiring
I remember what sprang to mind, the thoughts,
and I said to myself with gusto great;
‘I shall not shield my eyes,
for the morbid curiosity of mine
is a boundless ocean,
that longs to explore the farthest reaches
of my destined home,
with regions contained across all surfaces
yet to be named by man,
and if I may be so bold
to ask the owner of this here promise land
a question, with regards to whether
I can be the explorer to put a name
to these areas of lustrous pleasure
and great beauty, when exploring
not just her lower most features,
but the mountain ranges of her torso.’

Now, that it be time for a conclusion
to be writ upon the page,
it can be said with a heart, heavy with burden,
that ‘death is when the darkness takes you,
belittled by the black of night.
I don’t want to feel this first before I die,
I want to feel you instead,
for you are oh so hot like a burning bush,
the embers of your effigy
captivating me with a raw ecstasy of emotion
unlike any that I have inhaled before,
and known it should throughout the land
that separate we shall not,
for, unequivocally, there be no death in love.’

Mediation with Bradley Cooper

This piece contains sexual content and coarse language not appropriate for all ages.

Hey Guys! This is another piece for university that I have decided to upload to my blog. This has been work-shopped by my class and after adding their editorial corrections thought I might open this up to a wider audience. If you see any errors with spelling, grammar or sentence construction, may you please alert me? Thank you!

Bradley Cooper, sat at one end of the table, his orange hair tidily placed atop his head. His eyes were a dull green, with a couple of freckles lining the sides of his nose, his breath slow and strenuous. He wore a checked blue top and black jeans, his arms crossed in front of his chest while he stared at the individual sitting across from him. His name was Steven Carnes and he was the reason why he was there.
Steven had jet black hair which was beginning to recede at the front, his eyes being just as dark. His lips were rather crooked and his eyes were narrowed dangerously as he eyed Bradley, his arms folded neatly across his dark brown leather jacket, a belt buckle visible beneath it which was holding up his loose blue jeans.
Between the two of them at the front of the table sat the appointed mediator, Michael York. He had a round, boyishly handsome face, which was strange for someone who was breaching 60. His hair would have been all but gone if not for the transplants which only managed to cover half of his scalp in a dense light brown colouration of fluff. His eyes were small and blue, his face looking a little crinkled, whilst his blue suit and red tie gleamed pretentiously upon his person.
The door behind Steven opened without warning and another individual stepped into the room. He had graying hair and large black rimmed spectacles that covered half of his face. His nose was rather large for a face his size, his eyes looking as old and frail as the rest of his body did and yet, he walked with a lively passion for life as though every step promoted some excitement. He wore a grey suit with blue stripes down the front and red ones along his shoulders which continued down his sleeves. A checked orange tie completed the image, his entire attire being so well designed it could only ever be described as ‘loud’. It was so ‘loud’ in fact that if it were to speak it no doubt would have screamed.
‘Who’s this douche bag?’ whispered Bradley in the direction of the mediator.
‘That’s Jeremiah Delaney,’ replied Michael out from the corner of his mouth, his lips barely moving. ‘He’s every plaintiff’s wet dream. They call him the terminator; hasta la vista baby!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jeremiah, sitting down beside Steven. ‘I was busy having lunch with our prime minister.’
‘Glad you could make it,’ grunted Steven in the direction of his lawyer. ‘I was about to start paving the town with flyers if you didn’t show up in the next few minutes.’
‘Watch your tone boy,’ retorted Jeremiah. ‘I didn’t take this case because of your smile. As long as you can provide the sum I agreed to you needn’t concern yourself with my tardiness. I see Michael York is the man hired to supervise our mediation. This should be a walk in the park. The man is well into his dotage.’
‘He’s not the only one,’ shot back Steven under his breath.
Jeremiah pretended not to hear his client as he cracked his fingers before noting ‘I’ll handle this, you just sit there and look pretty unless called upon.’
‘I see someone doesn’t have a lawyer,’ said Steven mockingly, his voice loud enough for everyone else to hear as Bradley shot him a menacing glance.
Jeremiah took a quick breath before announcing ‘okay, how about we get this show on the road? I have numerous other venues to appear at today and do not wish to be kept waiting.’
‘Is he always so blunt?’ continued Bradley softly towards the mediator.
‘Pretty much,’ replied Michael. ‘May the plaintiff provide his name and age for the record,’ he said, turning to face Bradley.
‘Bradley Cooper, 32, no relation to the actor.’
‘May the defendant do the same’ enquired Michael in Steven’s direction.
‘Steven Carnes, 31.’
‘Now Bradley,’ continued Jeremiah, ‘why don’t you explain to us why you have gone to such lengths to call this enquiry?’
‘Well,’ began Bradley, ‘two months ago I was at home and I made my way outside to admire my front lawn. You see, I had a very beautiful lawn. It had won lawn of the year five times in a row. I took great pride in it. It was my livelihood, the only thing that had never betrayed me. You can tell a lot about people by the type of lawn they have. Me, I had one hell of a lawn.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Jeremiah, ‘your lawn never betraying you I mean?’ he added as Bradley nodded upon realising what he meant.
‘My lawn has remained by my side through thick and thicker,’ explained Bradley. ‘Unlike my ex-wife who ran off with the kids several years back, my lawn has never been anything but good to me. It has, did I mention, won lawn of the year?’ he asked, his teeth sparkling as he smiled.
‘Yeah, I caught that part,’ said Jeremiah, rolling his eyes.
‘Anyway,’ said Bradley, ‘I made my way outside one morning to find my lawn had been desecrated! It had been torn to shreds by a lawn mower and the centre of my lawn had been set alight. My roses had been pruned to death and one of my gnomes was missing. And the culprit for this malicious crime was none other than the man sitting before me!’ shouted Bradley, pointing a disapproving finger in Steven’s direction.
‘How you can be so sure that my client was the man responsible for this heinous offence?’ asked Jeremiah.
‘I looked over at his house, which is opposite my own, and saw him watering down my lawn mower which he had borrowed from me several months before but never returned,’ explained Bradley. ‘At the time he had run off with my lawn mower as though it were Julius Caesar’s balls! Also, my stolen gnome was standing directly beside him, and the name ‘Steven Carnes’ was burnt into my lawn.’
Jeremiah shot Steven a menacing look before continuing. ‘Perhaps there was another Steven Carnes?’
‘Another Steven Carnes?’ exploded Bradley. ‘In my neighborhood at 10 a.m. in the morning washing down my lawnmower? I doubt that very much, one’s enough isn’t it?’ Bradley took a deep breath before continuing. ‘Now, I want some justice. That, is my dream.’
‘I had a dream last night that a thick shake was drinking me!’ exploded Michael with a smile, the other three people in the room turning to face him before continuing with the proceedings.
‘Is he alright?’ asked Steven, pointing in the direction of the mediator, ‘or should I call the men in white suits and arrange for a rubber room to be prepared for Mr. York’s indefinite stay?’
Once more his lawyer ignored his outburst as he continued with the proceedings. ‘And where were you when these actions occurred Bradley?’ asked Jeremiah, giving Michael a strange look.
‘I told you, I was at home,’ explained Bradley.
‘And what were you doing?’ asked Jeremiah. ‘I want to know the precise actions that you were undertaking whilst my client supposedly ransacked your lawn.’
Bradley swallowed before answering the question. ‘I was in my bedroom, rubbing my ‘away itch’ formula onto my testicles.’
Michael shook his head whilst Steven sniggered.
‘I think it only fair that we turn the attention to my client and receive his half of the story,’ explained Jeremiah. ‘Were you in any way responsible for the occurrences which took place on Mr. Cooper’s lawn?’
‘You’re damn right I was!’ cried out Steven as Bradley looked as though he wouldn’t be able to contain his excitement for much longer.
‘Excuse me?’ questioned Jeremiah. ‘I think we need to take a moment here.’
‘I don’t think we do’ said Steven with a bright and cunning smile.
Jeremiah wrenched Steven out from his chair by his ear and dragged him kicking into the corner of the room, away from prying eyes. ‘You seem to think you have a choice here boy’ shot back Jeremiah in a harsh whisper that despite his best efforts reverberated throughout the room. ‘You asked me to assist you and out of the goodness of my heart I agreed. Now, I have not lost a single proceeding in my life and I will be damned if you are going to break my record you arrogant little prick! So how ‘bout you and I step outside for a moment so I might educate you on matters concerning our legal system; beginning with how to break it.’
‘I’m not going to deny it’ retorted Steven, Jeremiah realising it was hopeless to even try and coach his client as the two of them returned to the table. ‘And you know what,’ continued Steven, ‘I have the single most perfect and legitimate excuse for doing so as well. Mr. Bradley Cooper slept with my sweet baby sister.’
‘Define slept, said Michael.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Steven with a dumbfounded expression.
‘I mean it’s a very loose term,’ stated Michael, ‘and leaves room for speculation.’
‘He knows damn well what I mean by that!’ roared Steven, menacingly staring at Bradley as he spoke. ‘He was in her bed and he was in her, you know! Do I really have to say? This is all very disconcerting!’
‘So, sex’ said Michael, ‘yes?’
‘What do you think I’m talking about here, you stupid old fart!’ exploded Steven.
‘Really?’ asked Jeremiah, his eyes lighting up with interest. ‘What was she like?’
‘She certainly wasn’t how Steven described her’ stated Bradley. ‘She was like a wild fucking animal! All of this panting and growling and clawing. We went at it for hours.’
‘I bet the hounds would have been after her,’ smiled Michael.
‘Yeah,’ nodded Bradley, ‘the hounds of the Baskervilles.’
‘What?’ spluttered Michael as those on the other side of the table looked at him peculiarly. ‘Mrs. York apparently took a vow of abstinence when I wasn’t looking so I have to take my action where I can get it…’
Steven cleared his throat, in a failed attempt to garner the attention of the others in the room, continuing to explain his actions regardless. ‘I clearly remember the day it happened too. A couple of days before I destroyed his lawn he came over to my place and met my sister for the first time in years. She had been residing in Brisbane studying at an arts college. I remember his pick up line too,’ expressed Steven as the moment played out in his mind, remembering back to a time when he and Bradley were not bitter rivals.

It was several months earlier, with a gorgeous sunshine descending across the grounds. Steven opened his front door after hearing the doorbell and was instantly thrown a plate of blueberry pudding.
‘My mother baked them,’ noted Bradley as Steven allowed him entrance into his humble abode. ‘Ever since I kicked her arse into an institution she has been making this,’ he said, looking a little disgusted.
The landing was constructed of wood, with stairs opposite leading to the higher levels. The living room was adjacent to the landing, which was where an old creaking arm chair was placed in the corner containing the body of Steven’s decrepit, lifeless, snoring, burping, farting grandfather whom nobody wanted to go near.
‘Why are you here Cooper?’ asked Steven.
‘Can’t a friend visit every now and then?’ retaliated Bradley with a smile.
‘Not if this friend is intending to steal secrets about what I am planning on doing this year to win the lawn of the year award,’ retorted Steven.
‘The day I take advice on lawns from you will be a sad day indeed,’ said Bradley, leaning up against the door frame.
A creaking on the stairs alerted Bradley to another presence in the house. Jeanette, Steven’s sister, was making her way down the staircase. She had long, light brown coloured hair with blue eyes that shone out like street lamps. She wore a pale violet dress that clung to her body and jet black knee high boots.
‘Wow, fancy seeing you here,’ said Bradley with a smirk.
‘I live here you twerp,’ shot back Steven’s sister as the two of them smiled at one another.
Steven instantly recognised that something very wrong was happening in the house he currently resided in. Or was it an opportunity?

Returning to reality, Steven had a look of pain spread across his features. ‘Bradley found her impossible to resist because she has the body of an hour glass.’
‘I’m sure many women would love to be shaped that way,’ exclaimed Jeremiah. ‘I know my wife would especially. Unfortunately for me she happens to be shaped like a pear.’
Steven stared at Bradley wickedly. ‘What you two had in common – remains a mystery’ he said. ‘Bradley has always preferred women who were made from sugar and spice and my sister is quite the opposite. For one, she burps.’
‘She burps?’ questioned Michael with a weird expression.
‘Yeah,’ nodded Steven. ‘When our car broke down in Darwin she got out behind it and burped it across five states.’
‘Seriously?’ asked Michael.
‘All the best stories require a little exaggeration’ shot back Steven with an annoyed look. He shook his head before progressing onward. ‘But what really shakes me up is that he simply used her. I mean, if he wanted some smelly snatch he could have gone anywhere in town, but no, he chose my house to conduct his malicious sexual desires.’
‘For a man who went to so much trouble to defend his sister’s honor you saw have a funny way of showing your affection for her,’ said Michael, looking rather unimpressed at the terminology that Steven had used. ‘You seem like quite the chauvinistic misogynist.’
‘Well shit old timer!’ cried Steven. ‘Perhaps I should watch my fucking language? It’s not like that worm of a man inserted himself into your sister!’ he roared, pointing a finger in Bradley’s direction, ‘so excuse me if I am a little fucking infuriated right now!’ He took a deep breath as to calm himself down before beginning to speak once more. ‘On top of that I don’t know what my sister saw in him. I’d always given her credit where it was due and believed her to have sufficient intellectual capabilities. She told me Mr. Cooper had informed her that her presence helped open a window to his soul. Well, I can tell you I once looked through that window, and screamed at him to close the blinds.’
‘I don’t see why I have to be humiliated by this man!’ shouted Bradley, ‘besides, how did you find out about any of this in the first place?’
‘How do you think?’ retorted Steven. ‘My sister and I don’t keep secrets from one another. She told me all about how you firstly couldn’t get it up, and then how you couldn’t get it in.’
‘That is a blasphemy!’ erupted Bradley. ‘Just because I took his sister’s virginity!’
‘You did what?’ cried an astounded Steven, ‘oh you mother fucker!’ he shouted, launching himself across the table before Jeremiah could contain him. Steven grabbed hold of Bradley’s hair, who struggled to be free from his grip. ‘That’s just great!’ shouted an out of control Steven as he ripped at Bradley’s hair with all his might. ‘Not only does her vagina have to be fumigated because you decided to desecrate it with your filth, but you were the first one to give her the snake. Terrific! She’ll be remembering you until the next friggin’ apocalypse!’ he cried, just as a great ripping sound echoed about the room and Bradley’s hair came off in his hands.
‘Oh my fucking God!’ shouted Bradley as he felt the naked flesh atop his head. ‘First my lawn now my toupee! Give it back to me you bastard!’
‘Never!’ shouted Steven, jumping back to his side of the table.
‘Release the hat back to its owner,’ said Jeremiah to his client through pursed lips. ‘Male baldness is no laughing matter. After you do so, perhaps we might continue this ridiculous mediation.’
‘Oh, I’ll release it!’ shouted Steven, spit flying out in all directions, ‘I’ll release it into the fucking atmosphere! Would you like that?’ he laughed in Bradley’s direction.
‘Hey!’ shouted Bradley, ‘you sent your sister over to my place to spy on me in your last desperate attempt to win the lawn of the year award! You used her to get to me, and then you complain when we fall in love?’
‘Fall in love?’ roared Steven. ‘What the hell are you on chrome dome! I sincerely doubt the feeling was mutual baldy.’
‘You should have been there on our first night together,’ said Bradley with a smile plastered across his lips. ‘I made love to her smack bang in the centre of my lawn in front of an audience of several dozen gnomes.’
‘I don’t think we needed to hear that,’ stated Michael.
‘You are sick!’ roared Steven. ‘Who has sex with gnomes?’
‘I said we did it in front of gnomes!’ retorted Bradley. ‘Besides, I don’t know why you are complaining. Your sister is a consenting adult. She was nineteen at the time! I thought she would have seen a million of ‘em by then!’ he said, looking down at his crotch as he spoke. ‘Besides, you should have known what I did to her if she indeed tells you everything!’
‘She had a boyfriend up in Brisbane!’ roared Steven. ‘I thought she would have played doctor with him.’
‘I guess she wasn’t your prized informant after all!’ said Bradley, stifling a smile.
‘Just because of that,’ said Steven angrily, ‘you’re not getting this back now’ he said, shaking the orange hair hat in Bradley’s face before thrusting it into his pocket.
‘Well,’ began Jeremiah, halting the fight as to continue the legal proceedings. ‘I personally concur that this particular occurrence, along with my client’s testimony regarding the events which took place is a sufficient excuse to explain his actions, malicious or otherwise.’
‘What?’ roared Bradley angrily. ‘But what about justice? That is what I want.’
‘Mr. Cooper believes that Mr. Carnes should reimburse him twenty- five thousand dollars for the pain and destruction he has so wrongly caused him,’ expressed Michael.
‘No,’ said Jeremiah with a shake of his head.
‘Okay, how about twenty grand,’ said Bradley, receiving the same answer.
‘Fifteen thousand?’ enquired a desperate Bradley.
‘No,’ replied Jeremiah once more.
‘Ten thousand?’ asked Bradley, his face beginning to droop.
‘Not on your life,’ explained Jeremiah.
‘Okay, I can go as low as a grand, but that is it,’ said Bradley.
‘No,’ restated Jeremiah, his arms clasped over his chest.
‘Not even nine hundred dollars?’ probed Bradley, grasping at straws.
‘No, not even nine hundred dollars,’ replied Jeremiah in an unchanged, unemotionally zealous tone.
‘Eight hundred dollars?’ pleaded Bradley.
‘No,’ shot back Jeremiah.
‘Five hundred?’ questioned Bradley, his hands clasped together as though he were about to pray.
‘Not in this life time,’ exclaimed Jeremiah as Steven smiled menacingly beside him.
‘One hundred?’ asked Bradley.
‘What did we just say?’ retorted Jeremiah with a chuckle.
‘Okay, how about fifty. Fifty dollars?’ cried Bradley, realising his chance to be reimbursed for his losses was slowly dissipating.
‘Not going to happen,’ said Jeremiah.
‘Twenty?’ asked Bradley.
‘Nope,’ replied Jeremiah.
‘Ten?’ cried Bradley, with what looked to be a tear making its way out from the corner of his eye.
‘Not today,’ said Jeremiah with a smile, knowing full well he had won.
‘Okay, how about four dollars and fifty cents for the train ride home?’ questioned Bradley.
Jeremiah nodded. ‘Sure, we could do that.’

 

Life Happens

Hey guys! This particular piece is a short story I am working on for one of my university classes. It has been previously workshopped by both my tutor and fellow students alike and I would very much like to know your opinions. If you believe there are any editorial issues, grammatical errors or general sentence concerns, et al, please notify me and I will gladly take them all into consideration before I am to submit the finalised piece in three weeks time. Thank you!

People say that a person can eventually move on after losing someone they love. It has been ten years since I lost Katarina and I never have. Today is the anniversary of her death and I cannot help but reminisce on what could have been, for the day I lost my girlfriend, is the day that I too died, for I’d hardly say I’m alive when I feel so dead inside.

The rain was the heaviest I had ever seen. The headlights on our vehicle barely managed to reveal anything that night, the entire highway more like an endless tunnel than a road. The heating in the car could barely keep out the cold; our breath was coming out before us in clouds as the two of us shivered. Even my favourite dark brown leather jacket was unable to contain my warmth.
‘I can’t believe we chose this night to celebrate my birthday,’ sighed Katarina in her natural, high pitched accent. Because English was not her first language, she often spoke slowly to avoid mixing up her words. She wore the jet black jacket I had bought her two Christmases earlier. The collar was beginning to fray as she must have worn this a hundred times or more. Can’t believe she couldn’t wear something else on her special day. Her dark brown hair hung down to her shoulders, her naturally pink lips stood out on her ghostly white complexion, her brown eyes watching the rain droplets move across the windscreen.
God, I realise I must sound like a love struck teenager on her first date, but you must understand something. For us, every date was like our first because we would always discover something new, and every time we made love it was as though we had never explored our bodies before. Every second of our time together was divine, well, most of it.
‘It’s just a little rain, it’ll dry,’ I reassured her, pulling one hand away from the steering wheel and rubbing her freezing cold hands. I saw my reflection out from the corner of my eye in the rear-view mirror. My dark hair was tied back in a green hair tie, which, according to Katarina, perfectly matched my eyes. My lips were stained with dull red lipstick, whilst blue mascara lined my eyes. ‘You’d better button up Kat,’ I noted
She smiled back at me. ‘I’ll be fine. The cold has little effect on me.’
‘I hope you don’t expect me to care for you when you’re all sick and disgusting,’ I retorted.
‘Shut up,’ snorted Katrina. ‘I cared for you when you had pneumonia; took time off work and everything so I’d expect you to do the same for me.’ She folded her arms across her chest and looked out the window once more. ‘I only hope we get there before this storm gets any worse.’ Her eyes no longer sparkled like they so often did.
I could feel Katarina’s emotion as though it were my own. ‘We’ll get there eventually,’ I promised.
‘If anyone else said this I would be unsure,’ stated Katarina, turning to face me. ‘But because it’s you Aryah, I’d believe anything,’ she giggled. We stared into each other’s eyes, neither of us noticing the van veering onto the wrong side of the road until its blinding headlights collided with our own.

It is said that a person always remembers their first kiss, or, more accurately, the person who first kisses them. Funnily enough, I don’t, I only remember Katarina. Our first chance encounter was anything but normal: she stole my car.
At the time she had been working as a journalist and I as a public relations manager. I was hired to facilitate an agreement with two rival companies who wanted to merge into one. Apparently the idea of acquiring more money was enough for them to set their differences aside to work co-operatively towards mutual goals. Katarina had been asked by her boss to write an investigative article on the merger, but had unfortunately been denied access. For the best I would presume. I left the merger almost immediately after it began. I know, I know, how unprofessional of me! But I personally felt as though my talents had been squandered. I guess I was simply unable to listen to a gaggle of grown men strutting around talking shop. On the drive back to my hotel I received a phone call and only took my eyes off the road for a second when I hit something. I slowed down to retrieve my phone so I was glad that when the collision occurred, Katarina, the victim of my bad driving was not terribly injured. Apparently Katarina had never received her driver’s licence despite taking the test a few times and was forced instead to use alternate means of travel – in this case a bike – which unfortunately bore the brunt of my vehicle’s bonnet. I did try to apologise, I swear! However Katarina was in a state of shock and would not hear any of it. This led to frustration and eventually anger, which led to her kicking me in the shin. She just so happened to be wearing metal toe capped boots, so you can imagine the pain I was in; it was probably more than what I had inflicted upon her. After I fell to the ground she looked me up and down, jumped into my car and drove off. She did leave me the twisted carcass that was once her bike, which was awfully kind of her.
Luckily for me, her inability to drive led to her arrest. According to the patrol officer, he found it a touch odd when he recovered my purse and driver’s licence on her person, stating how I had apparently changed in ‘height, weight and appearance.’ Katarina had replied with ‘shit happens,’ and shrugged at his remark. She always was bold and her mouth almost always got her into trouble. I think it was this trait of hers that I first fell in love with. The officer, as strange as it might seem, decided to drop all charges, believing that we had paid each other back in full.
However, this chance meeting progressed into a friendship, which in turn became something else. This might have been because we couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves – probably because we were always fighting, and when we weren’t, well, we’ll get to that.

Katarina’s apartment at the time was in no way the definition of cleanliness; the floor was her wardrobe and the bed was her bathroom cupboard. We had decided to test our wits at a game of poker on this particular stormy night, and neither of us wanted to brave the weather to get a good night’s supper. However, the game seemed to be one sided. I was left in the bedroom to set out the cards across the bed, whilst Katarina was inside the bathroom, the door just open a crack, enough for me to see her shadow skirting the walls as she busily went about her post-shower business.
‘How long does it take to get ready?’ I shouted.
‘Patience Aryah!’ shot back Katarina in return. ‘You shouldn’t be so eager to charge headstrong into the fight. I always win you know.’
‘Do you now?’ I asked with a sly grin.
‘I am known for being quite vicious,’ she replied. ‘I take what I want and I always play for keeps.’
‘You sound as though you do this often,’ I commented.
‘Only when there is something worth fighting for,’ replied Katarina.
‘Is that why you are getting all pampered up in there?’ I asked. ‘Are you gearing up for battle, or do you have a hot date planned after this?’
‘Don’t know’ said Katarina in reply, ‘depends if she’s interested.’
Little did Katarina know I had already left the bed, quietly navigated the room and opened the bathroom door to find her standing before the mirror in her fluffy white towel, drenched with the water continuing to drip from her body. ‘Oh, she’s interested’ I replied as I wrapped my arms around her and planted my lips to hers as she did the same to mine.
A second later I had slipped the bath towel away from her body and let it fall to the tiles. Words could not begin to describe the flawless sight that befell my eyes and it would be an insult to even try.
It was not long after I had pushed Katarina up against the bathroom wall that she had pushed me back as well, forcing me once more into the bedroom where we found ourselves a couple of feet short of the bed, her clothes cushioning the fall as we fell on top of one another onto the floor, giggling as we did so.
Katarina pinned me to the ground before tearing ravenously at my clothes, a number of buttons coming loose in the process as my shirt was thrown to the side. With that, she came down upon me like a tidal wave, ever so slowly nibbling her way down my front, not daring to stop until she reached my clitoris. From where she lay her head, Katarina smiled up at me, before taking me into her mouth, a spasm of ecstasy rushing through my veins. Mind, heart, body; I was entirely hers and she mine, and nothing but the steel of an out of control vehicle would ever separate us from one another.

Pain was the first thing I felt upon waking in the hospital ICU, the flashbacks which had comforted me disappearing into the room. My arm was broken, my face badly bruised and my lips swollen from the airbag (deploying in front of me), a deep gash cut into the left side of my face from where my head connected with the side window. Only three of my ribs were fractured and yet all of them ached unanimously. The ramblings of the doctor meant nothing to me, for all I cared about, all I would ever care about, was lying a few rooms down from me.
I was allowed the privilege of seeing Katarina almost immediately. The walk to her room felt like an eternity and although Katarina looked nothing like I remembered, my feelings for her were unchanged.
She was lying back in bed, a great portion of her body having received terrible injuries during the crash. Her right leg was elevated and in a sling, being fractured in several places. Five of her ribs were broken, her left arm being wrenched from its socket whilst her right wrist, along with several fingers, were broken. Her face had been battered, a significant portion of her cheeks and nose being caved in from the smash. This of course was just the physical damage, the doctors warning me of the severe internal injuries.
At present it seemed that Katarina was in no position for any further surgery and the medicos were planning to wait for a good eighteen hours before they attempted any further procedures. Despite all this, Katarina was conscious, fighting the twilight that was creeping up around her.
‘Hey,’ she managed upon my entry as I grimaced when sitting down beside her. ‘I’m glad to see you were not badly injured.’
‘Tell that to the rest of me,’ I replied, attempting to keep up appearances as I ran my free hand through her hair. ‘The doctors say you are going to make a full recovery,’ I said as Katarina smiled weakly at me.
‘I’m a journalist, remember,’ she stated, her lips barely moving. ‘My job is to search for the truth; don’t start lying to me now.’
‘I’ll try to keep that in mind,’ I noted, maintaining eye contact as I did so, a tear running down my cheek.
‘Please,’ said Katarina. ‘I don’t want you to remember this as anything but a happy moment.’
‘How can that be when the woman that I love lies before me in critical condition?’ I asked. ‘Besides, how do you know that this is not a tear of joy? I was not lying when I told you that you may very well pull through, because there is still every chance. You are a fighter Katarina and I don’t want you to give up in the moment when you need to fight harder than you ever have before.’
‘You know as well as I that’s not true,’ replied Katarina out from the corner of her mouth.
‘Don’t talk like that,’ I sobbed, gripping her hand with mine as she winced from the pain, but continued to hold on regardless.
‘We’ve shared in a lot of adventures,’ she said with a smile as though recalling every one of them with those words. ‘But I won’t be coming with you this time.’
‘What?’ I spluttered as tears continued to well up in my eyes, yet Katarina continued to remain strong, although even she was having trouble trying to keep her emotions in check. ‘No,’ I retorted, ‘we-we stay together. I should have watched where I was driving. I was supposed to take care of you.’
‘No,’ replied Katarina with a sigh. ‘We were supposed to take care of each other. Don’t ever blame yourself and don’t stop living because of me. I’ve been strong enough for both of us, but now you must be strong enough for yourself.’ Katarina swallowed before continuing slowly once more. ‘Who knows, if there’s a bar up there or something I’ll save a seat for you and I’ll look down on you from time to time. You will never be alone and no matter what, I will always lo-’
In that moment, Katarina slipped into unconsciousness. She never spoke again. I remained with her until the monitors around us came to life with the sound of raucous beeping, and just like that she was gone.

This Far Come

SYNOPSIS: A poem that is meant to celebrate my fiftieth post, but me thinks I go a little off track. Not surprising though…I spend half my life a little off track…

This verse here – it’s a national anthem
for all poetic demons and phantoms
lingering in the minds of writers
who wish to be brave souls and fighters
in the barren world of literature,
where one’s mind and dreams are the only cure.

I want to have true love running throughout my head,
but I have words of death and destruction instead
which makes been a romantic so painful,
while my muse; you remain so beautiful;
a flawless image of perfection
to which I give all of my passion.

I have been writing since I was very young,
since I had the ability of my tongue,
and since I could hold a pen straight in my hand.
I wanted to be revered across the land,
but been a writer, it ain’t easy to do,
and I’m certain you know this part to be true.

To my fellow writer, do not ever give in,
even if people think you are living in sin,
for if sins are so passionate, why can’t we have more,
cuz I don’t think I have loved one quite so much before.
And even if I did, writing would always come first,
for it is my stamina, my courage, and my thirst.

I am cursed to never stop writing words over and over,
just as those drunk on love are required to become sober,
for this is eternal, this is destiny,
and writing words shall one day set my heart free,
and perhaps on this day I can finally be yours,
and Heaven’s angels will grace us with their mild applause.

This may be a poem on writing, but it’s about love too,
and the young lady I love, it could only ever be you.
However, this poem is also about memory
and to tell the whole truth I will have to tell a story
about the day I truly began living and officially came alive
when I joined a band on a cold autumn’s day in April, 2005.

In our band there was Melok, Dorothy, Jason and I,
and sometimes Ashley, Kimberly, and once, the other guy.
Jason played drums and guitar and so did Dorothy,
and so did I, but lyrics and bass – they were all me.
Ashley and Kimberly, they performed our vocals and Melok was our muse,
and like a grade-A footy team, with them by our side – we never did lose.

For five years in total we performed and we played
and I only wish that together we had stayed.
But time, as it always does, it splits people apart,
and when I think back to these moments, it breaks my heart
to know that we will probably never see each other ever again.
We were not destined to be musicians; we were not destined to be friends.

We did not perform across state nor our country, just at our school,
but hey (snigger), come to think of it, we were pretty friggin’ cool.
We performed to a wide amount of audiences over the years
and heard much appreciation for our music through shouts, cries and cheers.
We were just a stereotypical Melbournian school band,
no, come to think of it we were not; no, we ruled the heartland!

Those good times, they were good, but when bad, they were terribly bad,
and I won’t talk about such moments cuz they make me real sad,
for although we have been apart for some time now, at the time we had only just left,
and such a feeling, it caused me to become so cold, lifeless and utterly bereft.
We grew up, we moved away; we became who we have grown up to be,
and although we have lost touch, I would like to think we found destiny.

I went to university, and I still am there now,
and I ain’t quite yet ready to simply throw in the towel,
for in my first year I met my beautiful creative writing tutor, Tara,
who is a poet, playwright and editor who’s originally from Canberra.
She was an expert poetic ninja and frequently cut us with her figurative swords,
wishing to turn all of us into little poetic princes, princesses, ladies and lords.

‘How dare you call that a rhyme’ she once cried, ‘whilst using that word,
for such a poetic technique is so utterly absurd.’
Another time she instructed ‘this isn’t the right rhyme to use, are you completely crazy?
But do not fret – you have me as your tutor, and we’ll make a poet out of you yet DC.’
I cannot nor ever will be able to thank Tara enough, her teachings I cannot measure,
but I know for a fact that everything she taught to me I will forever and always treasure.

And now I have a blog, which I began in December 2011.
How many months have I been actively publishing these posts? Is it eight, or seven?
I have written poems and stories about love, betrayal, redemption and other places across the world, the likes of New Orleans,
America, Spain, New York City, Europe, Australia, all of Asia, the Middle East and additionally the Philippines.
However, to this day I remain my harshest critic,
and what I have to say for myself is quite horrific;

‘this is nothing spectacular,
it’s nowhere in particular,
nothing that can’t be found in any quarter mile,
no matter the journey, the tracker or the file,
for this is a road that’s only travelled by some
but for me, I am happy – to be this far come.’

Now, I would like to thank all who have liked and commented on my many pieces,
and give a shout out to all who have followed me – thank you for your performances.
All of you have played the part of an extraordinary audience,
so please, I hope you accept my gratitude, which comes at no expense!
Of course, if you secretly dislike me, I ask that you call ASIO, the CIA and the FBI
and even then I fear the most powerful of all authorities ain’t gonna be able to stop this guy!

Cuz I would like to think that I am a writer, and I hope this to be true,
and the reason I write is not for me, no, it is for every one of you!
So thank you again for your follows, and I hope I was a gracious host,
for you are the kind of audience every human being cherishes most.
Of course, I would also like to thank the woman of my dreams, the lady who is my muse,
she however doesn’t know the role she plays yet. Should I tell her? What do I have to lose?

 

Cheers! Thank you for reading!